


The Swan's Song

by melissa13



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort Through Music, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I Took One Throw Away Line About the Harpers of Dol Amroth and Ran With It, Song: The Last Goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29247000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissa13/pseuds/melissa13
Summary: On the eve of his return to Rohan with his uncle's body, the last thing Éomer wants to do is endure an entire night of sympathetic looks and heartfelt speeches, even if they are from his closest friends. The moment the beautiful lady of Dol Amroth opens her mouth to sing, however, he is under her spell and cannot help the emotions that spill forth.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	The Swan's Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Long time Éomer/Lothíriel reader, first time author! This fic has been in my head for a while, and I'm so happy to finally post it. It features two songs, the first, I've been picturing as something Debussy, either Claire de Lune or Deux Arabesques, and the second you will recognize if you're familiar with The Hobbit movies. No copyright infringement is intended, the lyrics do not belong to me. Please enjoy!

The low hum of voices floated out of the King of Gondor’s private dining room, and Éomer paused outside in the corridor, not quite ready or willing to enter. There was nothing too formidable awaiting him inside—food, friends, most likely something to wet his whistle—and yet, Éomer felt he would rather face a pack of bloodthirsty orcs than be forced to endure what he was sure would be a tedious evening. 

Truly, he looked upon Aragorn as his brother, but he wasn’t sure what had been in the former Ranger’s head when he had organized this dinner. An informal affair, he had insisted; a gathering of friends. More likely, Aragorn imagined he was providing a nice distraction for Éomer; something to prevent him from thinking about what would happen the following day. 

As if anything could.

“My Lord King?”

Éomer blinked, eyes focusing on the sudden shadow in the corridor in front of him. A young woman peered up at him in confusion. His thoughts were sluggish, and it took him a moment to recall her name; Lothíriel, Prince Imrahil’s daughter. He had met her for the first time three days earlier at the welcome feast. Gone were the elaborate raiment she had worn that marked her status as a high noblewoman of Gondor. Now, she appeared at ease with her long, wavy hair free of restraints and clad in a simple midnight blue frock. She also wore a frown of concern on her face.

“Pray, are you well?” she asked, her eyes sliding over to the doorway and then back again. 

Éomer suppressed an undignified scoff. Was he well? Far from it! He was sure the lady meant no harm, but he was of no mood to placate her concern. 

“Aye, my lady,” he said, bowing his head to her. “Do not tarry on my account. I shall join you all presently.”

Rather than being offended by his brush off, Lady Lothíriel gave him a small, understanding smile, before dipping into a curtsey. “Take all the time you need, my lord.”

She disappeared into the dining room in a swish of skirts, and Éomer was alone in the hallway once more. A chorus of greetings sounded from inside as the assembled welcomed the lady. He listened intently in case Lady Lothíriel decided to reveal that the King of the Riddermark was skulking outside in the corridor like an overgrown child, but she said nothing. 

Éomer knew in his heart that he was acting like a senseless, sentimental fool. Théoden had been gone for nigh on four months now, and yet, he felt his uncle’s absence so keenly that evening. Tomorrow, they would remove him from his place of honor in the Hallows, and the long trek from Mundberg to Edoras would begin, ending with Théoden being laid to rest where he belonged, entombed in mounds of the Barrow-field where lay the past Kings of the Riddermark. 

All of this Éomer knew, but oh! what he would not give to have his uncle back; to be walking by his side now. Everyone inside the dining room had someone, and with Éowyn back in Edoras and soon to depart for her new life with Faramir, Éomer had never felt quite so alone. 

Realizing he had lingered outside for longer than was acceptable, Éomer took a deep, steadying breath and entered the dining room. Luckily, the first person he encountered was Aragorn, who he acknowledged with a tip of his head. The High King of the Renuited Kingdoms was pleased to see him, and they clasped forearms warmly. 

“Here is our wayward guest of honor,” Aragorn announced to the room, eliciting a cheer. Éomer forced a tight smile to the room at large. “Welcome, brother.”

“If you should have kept us waiting any longer, laddie,” Gimli called out to him, “We might have started the meal without you!”

Éomer raised his eyebrows. “I see that my absence did not deter you from starting in on the ale, master dwarf,” he retorted, nodding to the goblet in his stout friend’s hand. 

Merry, Pippin, and Sam all laughed, raising their own mugs of ale. Éomer felt his mood lighten to see even the Ring-bearer crack a smile. He turned his attention to the radiant figure gliding up to Aragorn’s side.

“My Lady Queen,” he greeted, always a bit stunned by her ethereal beauty. He took her offered hand and bowed over the back of it. “My sincere apologies for the delay.”

“No apologies are necessary between friends, Éomer King,” Arwen assured him. “We are glad you could join us this evening.”

Éomer smiled politely, but evaded her knowing eyes. He wondered if her Elven intuition revealed to her how close he had come to fleeing. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another guest approach them, one Éomer was only too happy to see. 

“Imrahil,” Éomer said, acknowledging the Prince with a nod of his head. “I hope you have not come to accost me with more trade agreements.”

The older man laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nay, Éomer!” Imrahil replied with good cheer. “Tonight I simply hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

Éomer shook his head ruefully. “I fear I shall be poor company this evening.”

Imrahil opened his mouth to disagree, but was thwarted by his own offspring. “I am loathe to be the one to inform you, Éomer, but you are poor company most evenings,” quipped Amrothos from his place at the table. 

Éomer stifled a snort as Erchirion reached out and smacked the back of his brother’s head. The young lord’s sister also shot him an exasperated look from across the table. 

“That is rich coming from you, brother,” Erchirion said to Amrothos. “Your idea of good company consists of the tavern wenches in the Second Circle.”

Gimli choked on his ale, Legolas coming to his aid with a few well placed thumps on his back, while the four hobbits clutched their sides with laughter. Even Lady Lothíriel’s hand came up to cover her mouth, hiding her own amusement. Her father, on the other hand, was decidedly not amused, glaring at his sons. 

“Honestly, one would think I had raised a pair of court jesters rather than gentlemen with the way you carry on in front of your own sister, least of all your queen,” Imrahil scolded, before turning to Arwen. “I apologize on behalf of my sons, my lady.”

Arwen shook her head. “No harm done,” she told him, an indulgent smile on her face. “Indeed, had my family joined us tonight, my father would be reigning in my own brothers’ behaviors, and they are many thousands of years old.”

“So, you are saying there is no hope for these two, my lady?” Lothíriel asked, her eyes wide with feigned horror. 

“None whatsoever,” Arwen pronounced, sending the whole room into fits of laughter. 

Éomer’s spirits felt lighter than they had in months, and he wondered what he had been dreading so much. He gratefully accepted a mug of ale passed to him by Merry and greeted Gandalf, who sat at one head of the table, before seating himself between the wizard and Faramir. 

“Éomer King,” Faramir said, raising his wine glass in salute. 

“Lord Steward,” Éomer replied, matching his formality, though with a mocking edge to it.

“How fare you this evening, my lord?” Faramir asked, instantly souring Éomer’s mood, though he knew that was not the older man’s intention. 

Why had he sat next to him again? Oh yes, Éowyn had pressed him to get to know the man she loved. His sister never asked him for anything, so he knew he had to follow through on his one request or face her wrath. 

Éomer decided to be honest. “As well as can be expected,” Éomer said, glad that everyone else in the room had broken off into their own conversations as they sat down to the table. “I appreciate the King and Queen thinking of me, but I might have been better off sequestered at one of those taverns Erchirion mentioned.”

Next to him, Gandalf made a disgruntled noise. “Théoden would not have wanted you to drown your sorrows in women and ale, Éomer,” the wizened wizard admonished.

We will never know what Théoden would have wanted, Éomer thought bitterly, but did not say aloud. Instead, he acknowledged Gandalf’s words with a nod of his head, and turned his attention to where Aragorn stood at the other head of the table, his queen seated beside him.

“My friends, Arwen and I thank you for coming tonight,” he began. “Together, we have been through many trials, and tomorrow will be no less of one as we begin the journey to Rohan. Théoden King was a man about whom enough cannot be said, and whose name the bards will sing for as long as this world endures. But to those who knew and loved him,” Aragorn paused here and his eyes rested on Éomer, “The pain of his loss still feels as fresh as the first day.”

Éomer looked stoically away from Aragorn as he continued to speak, determined not to show his quickly spiraling emotions. He knew his friend would not fault him for paying his tribute no heed, but if he broke down now, he would not have the strength come morning to make the voyage ahead. 

Across the table from him, he saw Pippin put his arm around Merry, who was wiping tears off of his cheeks. Éomer glanced away quickly, and caught the eye of Lady Lothíriel on the other side of Faramir, her grey eyes filled with concern. He stared back at her, none too friendly, but she did not seem put off, and only turned her attention back to her king when his speech concluded. Feeling his friend’s gaze upon him once more, Éomer lifted his mug of ale to him and gave a grateful nod.

Aragorn sat down and servants began appearing, placing platter upon platter on the table. Devoid of the custom formality of a court feast, the gathered guests helped themselves, the hobbits digging in with their usual gusto. Éomer surveyed the abundance of food in front of him, but felt none of the normal stirrings of hunger. There was an ache within him, but it had naught to do with his stomach. 

The meal passed pleasantly for the most part, with Éomer mostly conversing with Faramir and Gandalf about the logistics of their journey to the Mark. With the great wain carrying Théoden’s body and the many wounded warriors returning with them from the Houses of Healing, the pace of the funeral party would be slow. Many folk of Gondor, mostly nobility, would also be accompanying them to pay their respects to the king who had saved their city, so the party would be quite large indeed. 

“Should we expect any trouble on the road?” Faramir asked him.

“My _éored_ encountered nothing on our way,” Éomer said, “But a grand, slow-moving company as ours will be ripe picking for stray orcs and the like. Aragorn and I have organized scouts to go ahead and behind us, so that none may catch us unaware.”

Gandalf and Faramir nodded approvingly, and the two began speaking of matters of the City while Éomer lapsed into silence. Dinner was winding down, and many sat back in their chairs, conversing with their neighbors. Only Merry looked as morose as Éomer felt, no matter how much Pippin tried to coax him to participate in their normal revelry. Éomer felt the little hobbit rise in his estimation again. 

Aragorn stood up. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?”

He held his hand out to his wife, and the rest of the company followed them, Prince Imrahil escorting his daughter. In the next room, a fire burned merrily in the fireplace, the banners of the King of Gondor hanging proudly above it, and there were an assortment of plush chairs and lounges to choose from. On the far side of the room was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, with a door to what Éomer suspected was a terrace overlooking the city. 

As Éomer gratefully accepted another ale from a servant, his eye was drawn to a large, ornate harp that stood before the fire. Settling into an armchair, he noticed that Lady Lothíriel was looking warily between her father and the instrument, a frown maring her pretty face. The others settled or stood around the room, Gandalf and Faramir claiming a nook where a chess board had been set up, and the four hobbits situated together on a comfortable loveseat.

“Prince Imrahil thought we would all enjoy some music this evening,” Arwen said, smiling at the man, who stood before the fire.

“Are you going to sing for us, Father?” Amrothos asked, his tone conveying his amusement at the idea. 

“Nay, not I,” Imrahil said with a smile, his eyes alighting on his daughter. “Lothíriel?”

The lady did not move from her seat. “Father?” There was an edge to her voice that Éomer did not miss. 

“Come, my dear,” Imrahil urged, holding out his hand to help her up. “Will you not indulge us? You play and sing as well as any I know.”

“Do you not think you are a bit biased, Father?” Lothíriel asked lightly. Though her expression betrayed her displeasure with her sire, she accepted his hand.

“Perhaps,” Imrahil conceded, not losing his good cheer.

For all her reluctance, Lady Lothíriel looked quite comfortable sitting upon the stool and drawing the large instrument to rest against her shoulder. Her fingers flitted across the strings experimentally, filling the air with a sweet sound, and Éomer shifted himself more snugly in his chair, feeling pleasantly relaxed. 

With a last defiant look at her father, the lady launched into her song, apparently needing no sheet music to guide her. Her fingers moved carefully across the strings on both sides of the harp, eliciting the most heavenly of sounds. The whole room was silent as they listened, hearing only the music and the occasional crack of the fire. Éomer was mesmerized, torn between watching the lady’s deft fingers or watching her face. Her eyes seemed almost closed as she focused them on the strings, and she moved her entire body in time with the music, the harp rising and falling on her shoulder, as though she and the instrument were one. The piece itself was light and airy, at times swelling to a crescendo before coming cascading down. Éomer could see that Imrahil had not exaggerated when he had said his daughter played well; in fact, that seemed an underestimation of her skill. 

Lady Lothíriel played for nearly five minutes, but not a single one of them stirred until her last note echoed around the room. There was silence for a moment, and the lady looked up from the harp with uncertainty, but an applause soon broke out, begun by the hobbits. Setting his drink down, Éomer hastily joined in. 

“Simply magnificent,” Gandalf said, and Lady Lothíriel smiled in thanks and started to rise from her seat. 

“Will you not play another, my lady?” Legolas asked, echoing Éomer’s own thoughts. “I have not heard such wonderful music since last we were in Imladris. It made my heart glad, as though all my worries were washed away.”

Lothíriel hesitated, but now Merry and Pippin piped up, “Another! Another, please, my lady!”

“Perhaps you might sing as well this time,” Imrahil suggested, drawing a brief look of ire from his daughter. 

“Go on, sister,” Erchirion encouraged. “No need to be shy.”

“We would be honored if you would sing for us, my lady,” Aragorn added, the queen’s hand clasped in his. 

Éomer could see Lothíriel’s resistance crumble in the face of such demands, least of all from her King and Queen. “Of course, sire,” she said, pulling the harp once again to her shoulder. 

She strummed pleasingly for a moment before pausing and gazing directly at Éomer, much to his surprise. “It seems only fitting that I pay tribute tonight to Théoden King and all those we have lost,” she said gently. “If my lord Éomer will allow me?”

His throat felt tight all of a sudden. “Aye, my lady,” was all he could manage.

She nodded her head in understanding and turned her attention back to the harp. This song was less complex than the first judging by the opening notes, but it was no less beautiful, Éomer thought. And then the lady opened her mouth to sing. 

_I saw the light fade from the sky_

_On the wind I heard a sigh_

_As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers_

_I will say this last goodbye..._

Éomer had experienced moments before on the battlefield when time seemed to stall, and all the world fell away, and he experienced it again as he watched Lady Lothíriel sing. The rest of the room and its occupants all disappeared until all he could see was the lady. Her face was bowed again towards the harp, but Éomer could see how expressive it was as she sang and played. The words of her song, so aptly chosen to pay tribute to his beloved uncle, made his heart swell. As she sang, the cloud of despair he had been operating under for the months since Théoden’s death seemed to dissipate.

Her voice was soft and pure, and the words pierced his heart like an arrow. Though the lyrics were a lament about saying goodbye, the melody was light and hopeful. Éomer felt as though Théoden was speaking to him now, through Lothíriel’s song. His uncle was gone, but he was accepting of his death, even embracing it, ready for the next path he would take. His uncle had gone to the halls of his forefathers where he would no doubt be feted and honored among the great Kings of the Riddermark that had gone before him, and there Éomer would see him again when his own time came.

_...To these memories I will hold_

_With your blessing I will go_

_To turn at last to paths that lead home_

_And though where the road then takes me_

_I cannot tell_

_We came all this way_

_But now comes the day_

_To bid you farewell_

The music of the harp slowed as the song came to an end, but now Lady Lothíriel raised her head to look at Éomer as she sang the very last line. “ _I bid you all, a very fond farewell._ ”

Around him, his friends were applauding again, but Éomer was frozen, staring at the lady, who gazed back at him. Her father was urging her to rise to take a bow, and her eyes left his, suddenly bringing him back to himself. He blinked and was startled to find tears in his eyes and his cheeks wet with them. The others were speaking, most likely complimenting her performance, but Éomer could not comprehend them, so overcome by emotion was he.

He stood very suddenly, drawing the eyes of all those in the room. Lady Lothíriel’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but he could not manage more than a hoarse, “Thank you,” in her direction, before he escaped out onto the terrace. 

“Nay, leave him be, Faramir,” he heard Aragorn say as he shut the door behind him. Éomer felt a rush of gratitude towards his friend. 

The terrace was quiet and the chill of the summer’s night hit him sharply after the warmth of the drawing room. A fountain bubbled on the path before him, and he stumbled around it, through gardens of plants and flowers, to the ledge overlooking the city. He leaned his elbows on the ledge, wiping away the wetness from his cheeks. He was not so much embarrassed for weeping as he was for causing a scene. The wisest course of action would be to take a moment out on the terrace to collect himself and then return to the drawing room where he would, with all the dignity he could muster, apologize to his hosts and the Lady Lothíriel for his abrupt exit. 

Behind him, there were footsteps on the stone path, and he wondered which of his friends had come to try and console him. 

“My lord Éomer?”

Éomer drew a sharp breath. Alas, it was not one of his friends, but the lady songstress herself. He did not turn immediately, paralyzed by both shame and his still tender emotions. 

“Pardon me, my lord, I do not mean to disturb you,” the lady began timidly. “I only wish to apologize for my song—” 

“Apologize?” Éomer interrupted, finally facing her. The terrace was dark but for a few lit sconces, and the light from their fires danced across her sun-kissed skin. Something stirred in his chest at the sight of her, and he swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to maintain his composure. “For what, my lady?”

She moved closer to him, coming within arm’s length. He had not been this close to her since they had met and danced together at the welcome feast. Then, she had been decked out with jewels befitting her station, hair tucked away beneath an ornate headdress, and clad in a silk dress in the blue and silver of Dol Amroth. Tonight, however, she had forgone all of that grandeur and dressed simply with no jewelry except a delicate, silver swan necklace at her throat. Her long hair framed her heart shaped face, and tumbled down past her shoulders, blowing slightly in the summer breeze. 

Away from the at times overwhelming beauty of Queen Arwen, Éomer allowed himself to acknowledge that Lady Lothirel of Dol Amroth was just as equally breathtaking. 

The lady was sorrowful though, and bowed her head to him. “I fear my song may have upset you,” she said. “That was not at all my intention, and I am sorry to have caused you pain.” 

“Nay, my lady, it is I who must apologize,” Éomer hurried to assure her. He recalled with much remorse what a brute he had been to her all evening. “Your song was...It was _beautiful_. Heartbreaking, aye, but only because of how the words touched me. I was overcome and unable to properly express my appreciation.” He put his hand over his heart and bowed. “Thank you, Lady Lothíriel. You have done my uncle a great honor.”

“There is none who deserves it so much as he,” Lothíriel replied solemnly. She studied his face, her expression very gentle. “It must be very hard on you, my lord, to be without your uncle. My father has told me that he raised you after you lost your parents.”

Éomer nodded. “Aye,” he murmured, his throat growing tight. “He brought us into his household after their deaths, and was as a father to my sister and me. I was...not ready to lose him.” 

The lady’s eyes grew sad, and she stepped up to the ledge, her fingers clasped on her swan necklace. “I do not think we are ever prepared to lose someone we love,” she whispered, looking down over the city. “That is the great sorrow of life. But with time, comes acceptance, and I think our loved ones would want us not to dwell on their deaths, but remember the happier times we spent with them.”

Her words were like a soothing balm on his soul. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, my lady.” 

A charming flush appeared on her cheeks at his flattery. “You are too kind, my lord,” she said, her eyes lowered modestly. He noticed her bite her lip, something like indecision crossing her face. “Well, I only wished to ensure you were all right. I should—”

Clearly she meant to return to the drawing room, but her presence was comforting, and her song still resonated in his ears. “Please,” he interrupted her. “Stay. Your company would be most welcome, my lady, if it is not too much to ask.”

Éomer knew Gondorian rules of propriety were much stricter than those of the Mark, and he wondered if perhaps he should not be entreating her to stay out here alone on the terrace with him. Her father and brothers could not be unaware of her absence, though, Éomer thought, and that they had not yet come charging out of the drawing room seemed a point in his favor. 

“I would be glad to, my lord,” she said, her features relaxing.

Lothíriel lay her hand lightly on his offered arm, and he led her over to a stone bench in front of the fountain. He helped get her situated before sitting next to her, angling his considerable frame towards her. 

Éomer could not recall the last time he had felt so relaxed in a young noblewoman’s presence. From his time in Mundberg during the coronation festivities, and even in the couple days since he had returned, he had found himself like a skittish colt in the company of the ladies of Stoningland. They flirted with him, danced with him, and asked him questions about his homeland, but he also had the unpleasant feeling that they were laughing about how rough and uncivilized he was behind his back. Although he had just met Lady Lothíriel the other day, he got the impression that she was not like that. 

“You play remarkably well, my lady,” Éomer told her, the compliment feeling clumsy in his mouth. “I heard many a performance from the famed harpists of Dol Amroth after Aragorn’s coronation, but there were none so riveting as yours were this evening.”

“High praise indeed,” Lothíriel said, her smile revealing dimples on either side of her mouth. “My mother, and then my Aunt Ivriniel, taught me to play. I used to dread my lessons when I was a child and would use all kinds of excuses to escape them. It was only when I was older that I grew to love it as I do now. The music reminds me of my mother,” she added softly, almost to herself. 

She blinked suddenly, looking like she had rather regretted saying anything, so Éomer did not ask about her mother. He knew from conversations with Imrahil and his sons that the Princess of Dol Amroth had passed away of sickness some ten years ago. Instead, her words had struck on a different topic that he was very curious about.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he started, “You say you love to play, but I could not help but notice your reluctance earlier when your father asked you?”

Lothíriel surprised him by grimacing slightly, her eyes sliding over to him. “Oh, you will think me a silly, little fool.”

Éomer frowned. “I doubt that,” he said, growing even more intrigued. “Pray, tell me.”

The lady hesitated, biting her lip. “Well...If I am being honest, it was because of you, my lord,” she stated, beginning to twine a strand of hair around her finger. He had seen women do this in flirtation countless times before, but on Lothíriel it appeared to be a nervous habit. 

It took a moment for her words to register with him. “Me? I do not understand.”

Lothíriel’s brow furrowed as she considered him. “No, I do not suppose you would,” she sighed. “You cannot be ignorant of your position, my lord. As an unwed king of our closest ally, you would be quite the catch for any maiden, and indeed, I have seen many ladies casting their nets, hoping to ensnare you.”

Éomer had the absurd image of himself floundering in the current of the Anduin while the noble ladies of Stoningland fought over catching him, each one holding a large net in their hands. He was careful not to laugh, lest the lady think he was laughing at her. 

“I see,” he said, as composed as he could.

“Yes, and I did not want to sing because I feared you would think I was like the other ladies, trying to seek out your attention through any means necessary,” she finished matter-a-factly. 

It did sound fairly sensible when she put it like that. Éomer did not know whether to be offended that she was _not_ casting her net to ensnare him or to be admiring of her honestly and lack of pretense. He settled for the latter. 

“Well, I think you for your candor, my lady,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at her. “Most would not be as forthcoming.”

“I have heard the people of Rohan do not look kindly upon liars,” Lothíriel reasoned. “I assumed their King would feel the same way.” 

Éomer tipped his head to her with a smile. “Aye, he does.”

They were silent for a few moments, and over the trickling water of the fountain, he heard Merry and Pippin singing a rousing song of the Shire back in the drawing room. Again, he felt that he should suggest they return, but he was loath to part ways with her. 

“I understand you are to accompany us to Edoras, my lady,” Éomer recalled, now imagining with anticipation the possibilities of speaking with her again on the journey.

Lothíriel’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes, I am very much looking forward to it,” she told him. “I have never traveled beyond the borders of Gondor before, and what I know of Rohan, I have learned mostly from books written by Gondorian scholars. I imagine they might not be the most reliable of sources. Is it very much different from here?”

“I think you will find it so,” Éomer said, suddenly very worried she would not care for his home. “Here, your great cities are built with rock and mortar, whereas in the Riddermark, we use mostly wood and thatch. Meduseld, the Hall of the King, sits up on a hill, with the town growing around it down to the base. If you stand on the front steps of the Golden Hall, you can see fields of grass in every direction, as far as the eye can see. In the spring, the plains bloom with many colored wildflowers, and the air smells sweet with the scent of them.”

Lothíriel smiled at him, taking his breath away. “It sounds wonderful.”

Éomer returned her smile without any effort. “The _Eorlingas_ live a much more simple life, but they are as good and hearty a people as you will find anywhere.”

“A courageous people as well,” Lothíriel added. “I must admit to being slightly intimidated to make the acquaintance of your sister, the Lady Éowyn. Her deeds on the Pelennor Fields are widely known in all of Gondor. In fact, tales of her slaying of the Witch-King reached us in Dol Amroth even before Faramir sent word of their involvement.”

For a moment, Éomer had a flash of Éowyn’s lifeless body on the battlefield, and he remembered the crazed fury that overtook him and the reckless actions that followed. To lose both Théoden and Éowyn so shortly after Théodred! Despair was not a strong enough word for what had coursed through him as he had ridden to what he thought would be his own death. 

“My lord Éomer?”

He returned to himself to see Lothíriel’s look of concern. 

“Forgive me,” he said brusquely. “My thoughts ran away with me. Sometimes it is as if I am still on the battlefield.” _Surrounded by the bodies of everyone I hold dear on this earth,_ he thought, but did not say. 

“I cannot imagine,” Lothíriel said, shaking her head. 

“Those of us who fought would never want you to,” Éomer told her softly. 

She nodded in understanding, looking up at him through her dark lashes. He wondered what the people of the Mark would make of her and her family. He had found that, though the people of Dol Amroth all had the tall and noble meins of those with the blood of Númenor, their bronze skin and dark hair set them apart from other Gondorians and would no doubt stick out considerably amongst the pale skin and fair haired Rohirrim. Then again, the company they were traveling with would contain Elves, Halflings, and a dwarf, so he expected his people would not bat an eye. 

He recalled what they had been speaking of before he had fallen into melancholy, and thought to lighten the mood. “As for my sister, she is not all that terrifying, unless it be very early in the morning,” Éomer said, mock-seriously. “Then, it is best to keep out of her way.”

Lothíriel’s laughter filled the air, giving Éomer immense pleasure. “We two share that trait in common, then,” the lady confessed, leaning closer to him to divulge her secret. “Should I make my cousin aware of this, think you?”

Éomer pretended to consider it, before shaking his head. “He will be housed in Meduseld during his stay, so I am sure he will discover it in his own time whilst there. If he still wants to marry her after that, I am convinced they shall do well together.”

She giggled again, but it was brief as she tilted her head, studying him. “Will you miss your sister terribly when she weds Faramir?”

Éomer blinked, looking away. If anyone else had asked that question, he would have either laughed it off or brushed them off, but she compelled him to honesty. “Aye, very much so,” he admitted, looking out across the terrace. “Éowyn is the only family I have left.”

Lothíriel was silent for a moment before her hand twitched, drawing his eyes back to her. Then suddenly, her hesitation apparently overcome, she put her hand over his where it rested on top of his thigh. Éomer’s eyes widened, darting down to where her small, smooth hand curved around his large, calloused one. 

“I hope you know how highly my father and my family think of you, my lord,” she told him. “Please believe me when I say that Lady Éowyn may be all that is left of your House, but you are not alone in this world.”

Her upturned face radiated complete earnestness, and her dainty hand gripped his with surprising strength. Here was a creature whose goodness and innocence had been unmarred by the horrors of war. That she would offer someone like him, who had known nothing but years of constant strife and loss, such compassion and understanding was truly extraordinary. He knew he had never met anyone like her before, and doubted that he ever would. 

Her words also brought about a realization. “Do you know, when this evening began, I wondered why Aragorn would force me into company, knowing my mood, but I believe I understand now. He was trying to show me what you just have,” Éomer said, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Théoden and Théodred are gone, and while they can never be forgotten or replaced, I have also made new friends whose companionship I cherish and who are willing to support me as my uncle and cousin would have.”

The lady nodded, her smile gentle. “I know we have not known each other long, but I hope I might be counted among those new friends, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady,” he said, his growing smile threatening to split his face. “And as my friend, I must insist that you call me Éomer as your father and brothers do. Too few call me by my own name these days.”

“Then I shall gladly do so, Éomer,” she assented. “And in return, you must call me Lothíriel.”

Éomer held her gaze with his. “Lothíriel,” he murmured, testing the feel of her name on his tongue. 

The two of them had somehow migrated closer together, Lothíriel’s grey eyes shining with trust and innocence as she looked at him. If he were a man with a weaker grasp of his self control, he might have done something incredibly foolish just then. Instead, he lifted Lothíriel’s hand up to his mouth and placed a delicate kiss upon the back of her palm. 

“We had best be getting back,” Éomer suggested, standing up from the bench. “We have tarried too long, I fear.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” she sighed, rising and accepting his proffered arm. 

They slowly meandered down the path back to the door of the drawing room. Through the windows, they could see that the music had ended, and everyone had broken off into their own conversations. 

Éomer stopped them just before the door. “Lothíriel, before we go in, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course, Éomer.” 

“Might you grace the Golden Hall with a song or two once we have arrived at Edoras?” he asked, praying she would consent. “My people are fond of music, and I think your song would lift their spirits as it has done mine.”

Lothíriel curtseyed gracefully. “If the King commands it.”

Éomer smiled, raising her back up. “The King does not command; Éomer, your friend, asks.”

“Then, yes, I would be more than happy to,” she said brightly. 

“ _Thank you,_ Lothíriel,” he said, hoping to convey his gratitude for everything she had done that evening. He did not know what would have become of himself without her. 

She briefly touched below his shoulder as he held open the door for her, and he thought that maybe she understood. 

Éomer missed the speculative looks from the room as they entered, so caught up was he in savoring their conversation. He absent-mindedly made his way over to where Gandalf and Faramir were engrossed in a game of chess. 

In his mind’s eye, he thought he could recall seeing a harp that had belonged to his grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, somewhere in Meduseld. Perhaps he had better write to his housekeeper Mildritha to locate the harp and have it tuned and polished. That would be the perfect surprise for Lothíriel once they arrived at Meduseld. He hoped she would be pleased. 

“Are you all right, Éomer?” Faramir asked him suddenly. 

Éomer blinked, looking down to where Faramir and Gandalf were gazing back at him expectantly. A twinkle of laughter floated from the far side of the room, and he did not even have to turn to know it was Lothíriel.

“Aye, I believe I am,” he said truthfully. 

The party broke up not long after that, all the guests eager to seek their beds in anticipation of an early start the next morning. Éomer was only too glad to return to his assigned room in the King’s House. As soon as he entered his chambers, he went straight to his desk and pulled out a piece of fresh parchment. 

He had a letter to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you thought, if you might be interested in seeing more! :)
> 
> For the two songs, I listened to Héloïse de Jenlis's versions of Claire de Lune and Deux Arabesques on YouTube for inspiration as well as Rachel Hardy's cover of The Last Goodbye. So beautiful!! I didn't post all of the lyrics for the song because I'm not sure that's allowed, but it's a great song, so I recommend looking them up!


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